


You're a Habit Hard to Break

by LiveLaughLoveLarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Dissociation, Harry's is single-mindedness, Like so much angst, Louis' fatal flaw is pride, M/M, Makeup Sex, Making Up, Post-Break Up, Sorry Not Sorry, at least that's what it feels like for me, because i'm not that much of a sadist, but it's, eventually, so be careful with that i guess, that's all i can think of for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 15:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11187801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLaughLoveLarry/pseuds/LiveLaughLoveLarry
Summary: 722 – the sudden calm after a painful partingEveryone deals with breakups differently. Louis feels everything all at once -- hurt, anger, sadness. Harry feels nothing at all. Louis throws himself into his work to distract himself. Harry can't work. They're two broken people, but they don't know how to fix themselves alone.~*~*~“Brutal honesty?” Harry says. “That sounds… risky. What if we make things worse?”Louis laughs bitterly. “We broke up, Harry,” he says. “How could we make things worse?”Harry nods. “I guess you’re right,” he says. “You first?”Louis swallows hard. “Me first."





	You're a Habit Hard to Break

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as part of an ongoing challenge. We each select random numbers and are given a specific emotion from the book 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names. To read the other fics written in this challenge, click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/ShortFic_Challenge_For_Which_There_Is_No_Name/works), or you can find the masterpost on tumblr [here](http://lululawrence.tumblr.com/post/159679804243/1000-feelings-for-which-there-are-no-names-prompt). Big thanks to everyone who's made this challenge happen and made it so amazing! Thanks for letting me be a part of it!
> 
> Title from Carrie Underwood's Wine After Whiskey.

The moment the door closes behind him, Louis regrets it. He wants to go back. He wants to turn around, walk back inside, say he’s sorry and mean it.

But he can’t face it. It feels like giving in, like conceding, and he just can’t bring himself to. It’s the same reason he didn’t take back the ultimatum, though the minute the words left his mouth he knew he was wrong. He agreed with Harry, which only felt worse.

He stands on the other side of the door for a solid minute, unable to move. He’s not sure if he’s waiting, hoping for Harry to come after him, or if he’s just forgotten how to make his legs work. It has been a long time since he's chosen to walk away from Harry.

His legs are trembling when he finally forces himself into motion, each step a monumental effort. He presses the button for the lift, wishes that its failure to light up meant that the lift wasn’t coming rather than that the landlord still hadn’t replaced the bulb.

The lift is empty, for which Louis is grateful, the air inside still and calm. He stares fixedly at the door, tries not to remember the (many) times where Harry pressed him against the wall and kissed him until he thought his knees would give out. It was a very different sensation to the shakiness that grips him now.

When he walks out onto the street, it feels too loud. People are talking, car engines humming, pigeons cooing. It feels wrong. It feels like the world should have stopped with them, like something as monumental and cataclysmic as what has just happened should have at least some effect on the world at large. But everything is the same, the same stoplights and corner stores and neighbours and children. Only _his_ world is different.

He doesn’t know how far he walks, doesn’t know where he’s going. He walks straight, turning occasionally when he notices a red light. He wonders how many streets he crossed against the light, how many angry honks he didn’t hear, his mind far away. Perhaps he should care, should feel a flash of horror at the idea that he could have passed inches from death without noticing, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything at all except the crushing pain that presses on him from all sides, turning his vision grey and hazy and filling his hearing with a dull roaring.

It’s not healthy, he’s sure. It’s not healthy that he should be so uninterested in life if Harry isn’t in it, but he can’t help it.

He finds himself in a park as the stars begin to appear in the sky. He doesn’t recognise it, but he doesn’t know if that’s because he’s never been before or because he can barely see, his eyes damp and watering as he stares at nothing.

Perhaps not quite nothing. He stares at memories. Plans. Dreams. Everything he ever did with Harry and everything he wanted to do someday. It’s a long list. After four years, they’ve made so many. He can’t quite believe that they never will again.

He sits on a park bench, the wood cold and hard under him, and wonders what comes next. He didn’t take anything with him, just what he had – his phone, his wallet, the clothes he’s wearing. But he can’t go back. He won’t go back. He can’t face it, any of it. 

He lies down on the bench, though he doubts he’ll sleep at all. He can feel the gaze of the occasional passersby, pitying him, though for all the wrong reasons, but he can’t bring himself to care. His eyes stay open as he stares up at the dark and empty sky.

~*~*~

When Louis leaves, Harry can’t move. It feels like his mind has stopped, everything around him still in motion but he can’t think, can’t move, can barely see. He hears the lift chime, hears the doors trundle shut, and still he’s frozen in place.

It doesn’t feel real, is the thing. It feels like a dream, one of those dreams where something terrible is happening and he can’t move, can’t run, can do anything, except it’s real, it’s real and it’s happening to him and the something terrible is Louis walking away from him with that awful, heartbreaking expression on his face.

He feels a tear slide down his cheek and suddenly he can move again. He doesn’t know what to do, starting for the kitchen, then the bedroom, then finally the living room. He lowers himself to the sofa slowly, feeling half-dazed, and sits there for a long moment. At last he pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number.

“Hello?” The voice is soft and warm on the other end, and it sounds like home -- or at least, it sounds like what home used to be.

“Gem?” Harry says. “I – I need you.”

There must be something in his voice, because she doesn’t ask any questions. “I’m on my way,” she says without hesitation. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” She pauses, and Harry can hear the jingle of her keys in the background. “Are you okay?” she says softly.

“No,” Harry says. “He’s gone, Gemma.”

He hears her suck in a breath. “He – Louis?” she says.

Harry can’t speak.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she says. “Ice cream?”

Harry shakes his head, then remembers she can’t see it. “I’d probably throw it up,” he says aloud. “I just – I don’t want to be alone. I can’t-”

“You don’t have to,” Gemma says. “Just stay with me, babe.”

They keep the call going as she drives, though he stays silent. Gemma keeps talking, filling the silence with words he can’t hear. He only realises she’s arrived when he feels the cushions give, looking up just in time to see her sliding into his side and wrapping her arms around him. He lifts his own arms to reciprocate, tucking his chin over her shoulder.

“D’you want to tell me about it?” Gemma asks softly.

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t – I can’t-“ He stops, the words sticking in his throat. “He’s gone,” he repeats.

Gemma rubs circles on Harry’s back. “I know, honey,” she says. “I’m sorry.” She pulls back slightly. “Do you want to watch shit telly together?”

Harry shrugs, but doesn’t stop her as she picks up the remote and scrolls through Netflix before settling on Downton Abbey. He settles his head in her lap, sighing appreciatively as she settles a gentle hand on his head, absently wrapping a strand around her finger. It’s a familiar sensation; Louis always loves to play with his hair.

Harry flinches, tugging his head from Gemma’s hands, her fingers catching in the strands and almost ripping several out at the roots. She looks startled, then understanding crosses her face.

“Sorry,” she says softly.

Harry says nothing, just shakes his head and rests it back in her lap. He keeps his face pointed in the direction of the television, but he sees nothing at all. Gemma falls asleep sometime during the third episode, and Harry turns off the TV, careful not to wake her. The room is nearly pitch black without the illumination of the screen, but Harry keeps his eyes wide open, staring unseeing into the darkness.

He keeps staring all through the night. He doesn’t sleep. And he doesn’t cry.

~*~*~

Louis’ bones are aching by the time morning breaks. He can feel every place where they pressed again the unyielding wood of the bench, nothing to pad or soften their touch. He winces as he stands, stretching the stiffness from his muscles. He still doesn’t know if he slept. Time feels like it has lost meaning, like it stopped the moment he walked out of Harry’s life. Maybe that means he’s still back there, somehow, still standing frozen in the hallway outside the flat, still thinking about changing his mind and turning around, begging Harry to forgive him.

He knows it’s not true, but he wishes it were.

He walks slowly to work and takes the lift ride up to the company offices in a cottony silence. He’s the only one there, nearly an hour early, and he stops in the toilets to freshen up – splash some water on his face, finger comb his hair into something resembling order. He can’t do much about his clothes, but he straightens them and rubs at a grass stain on his sleeve. The t-shirt is plain, at least, and it’s not like he interacts with clients or anything, thank goodness. Just numbers. Simple, logical, straightforward numbers.

He can do that.

He can’t do it. It’s painfully clear by the time his coworkers start to trickle into the office that his focus is completely shot. He keeps making mistakes – typos, miscalculations, entering numbers into the wrong locations – and he finds himself distracted every fifteen minutes. As the office fills and the sound of pens scratching and papers rustling, keyboards tapping and people talking begins to wear on him, his focus only grows worse.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a friendly voice from behind him asks, “What’s on your mind?” His cup tips, soaking a stack of papers in hot tea, some which runs off the desk to drip onto his trousers. Louis pushes away from the desk, turning to see Niall standing behind him, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Louis shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’m just – distracted.”

“Bad day?”

Louis looks down. “The worst.”

Niall is silent for a long moment. “You should make sure your leg isn’t burned,” he says at last. “I’ll clean this up.”

Louis doesn’t have the energy to argue. He stands, walking mechanically to the toilets down the hall. He should do as Niall said and check for burns, he knows – his leg is already stinging slightly – but he can’t bring himself to. Instead he leans against the counter, resting his full weight on his hands as he looks at himself in the mirror.

He looks a mess. It’s not the t-shirt or the unwashed hair, though goodness knows that isn’t helping. It’s that his eyes are dull, his skin pallid, his expression almost sagging and his body with it. He stands there for a minute, staring, and then leans forward, pressing his forehead to the glass.

That’s how Niall finds him. It’s probably been about ten minutes, but it could just as easily have been two, or even twenty. Louis opens his eyes as he hears the door swing open, hears the gentle footfalls ringing across the tiled floor. He twists his head to the side just enough to see that it’s Niall, and then idly wonders what he might have done if it was his boss. Nothing, most likely. Maybe that should concern him, but it doesn’t. It just hurts.

“How’s the leg?” Niall asks.

Louis closes his eyes again. “Sore,” he says. “It’ll mend.”

Niall sighs. “If you’re not going to take a look, then let me,” he says. He pulls a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and runs cold water over them. “Take your trousers off.”

Louis complies, undoing his zipper with a sigh of his own, and Niall’s frown deepens. “Okay, now I know something’s wrong,” he says. “Normally you’d have taken an opening like that to make a lewd comment or a snarky comeback.”

Louis shrugs. “Guess I’m not really in the mood.”

Niall laughs, but it trails off as he realises that Louis wasn’t aiming for a joke. “What happened, Lou?” he asks, pressing the damp paper towels to the angry red marks on Louis’ thigh. The cool water is soothing, but the sting of his leg is nothing next to the ache in his chest, an ache that no amount of ice or cold water will soothe.

“Harry and I broke up.”

Niall drops the paper towel and it hits the floor with a splat. “ _What?”_ he says, a little too loudly, and Louis winces. “You – no, that’s impossible, you can’t-”

“We did, Niall,” Louis says. “We could and we did.”

Niall stares at him a moment longer, then shakes his head as he grabs more paper towels. “Shit, man, that’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, well.” Louis shrugs. “I guess that’s life.”

“No wonder you’re such a mess,” Niall says, then winces. “I mean – not that you’re – well-”

“I know what I look like,” Louis says, cutting him off. “I slept on a park bench last night; how do you think I look? Or slept might be a strong word.”

Niall shakes his head again. “I’m sorry, man. That’s rough.”

“Yeah.” Louis scratches at his neck. “I thought being here would help – distract me, maybe – but I can’t focus at all.”

“Just say you’re sick,” Niall advises. “It’s close enough to the truth. And you’ve got plenty of days saved up. You need the time to recover. Sort your head out.”

Louis nods slowly. “You’re probably right,” he says, though the idea of an entire day with nothing to do fills him with a certain amount of dread.

“I usually am,” Niall says. “And Lou, I’m here if you want to talk about anything.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, “but I don’t think I’m there just yet. I don’t know – it’s just… raw, I guess.”

Niall nods. “I understand,” he says. “But seriously, anything I can do to help-”

“I’ll let you know,” Louis promises.

~*~*~

Harry feels it when Gemma wakes. It’s early, the weak light of morning trickling in through the dingy windows. He’d been meaning to have them cleaned for ages, but there had never been the time or the money, and then it was no longer important.

Gemma stretches, dislodging Harry’s head from her legs, and he sits up slowly. Everything feels slow, his limbs, his mind, even blinking feels like it takes longer than usual, and requires more effort. “Been a while since I slept sitting up,” Gemma says with a laugh, trying to work the kinks out of her back.. “Guess I’m getting old.”

“Sorry,” Harry says. He gets to his feet and begins mechanically folding the blanket that she must have draped over him at some point. He doesn’t remember it. He tugs the corners into perfect alignment, running his fingers along the creases.

Gemma takes the blanket from his hands, laying it across the arm of the sofa. “Hey,” she says. “It’s okay.”

He shakes his head, and she grimaces.

“All right,” she said. “It’s not okay. It sucks. It _hurts_. Give it time, babe. You’re one of the bravest people I know.”

The words play over and over in his head, but he’s not focusing on the ones he knows she wants him to. The sentence that keeps repeating is one of the shortest ones. _It hurts._

It doesn’t, is the thing. He keeps expecting it to, keeps waiting for the pain to hit. He knows it will be intense, even devastating, but it’s familiar at least. It’s logical. He’s experienced pain before, experienced, heartbreak, loss, sadness.

He’s never experienced this – this _nothing_ , this emptiness that seems to fill him, leaving no room for anything else. He doesn’t even know how to describe it. How does one describe the feeling of a complete and total absence of feeling? It reminds him of the sensation of when his hand or his foot falls asleep, except everywhere, all at once – his body, his mind, his heart, all there but not quite there.

“Harry!”

Gemma’s tone makes it clear that this is not the first time she’s called his name. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but the fog only swirls and stays in place. “What is it, Gemma?” he asks.

“I was just wondering if you wanted anything for breakfast.”

Harry’s stomach lurches at the word, and he swallows hard. “No,” he says quickly. “I’m not hungry.”

Gemma looks at him carefully. “Are you certain?” she asks. “When was the last time you ate?”

He doesn’t remember. Hours ago, he’s sure, but he’s equally sure that anything he tries to eat now will just wind up in the toilet a few minutes later.

“I’m certain,” is all he says, and Gemma doesn’t press the point. “I should get dressed,” he says instead. He’s still wearing his work clothes from yesterday, rumpled and creased and probably smelling a little gross. He heads for the bedroom to change.

Gemma finds him there a few minutes later, still standing in the doorway, unable to step inside the room that holds so many of their best memories. His hands are trembling on the doorframe, and he starts at Gemma’s gentle touch on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says, but she just shakes her head.

“What do you need?” she asks.

He needs Louis. He’s always needed Louis; always will need him.

Harry bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood. “My work clothes are in the closet,” he says. “Dress shirt, pants. Socks in the middle drawer on the top.”

Gemma nods. “I’ll get them,” she says.

Harry turns away from the room, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. His palms are sticky with sweat but he shivers.

Gemma emerges from the room a moment later holding the things he asked for, along with a red tie that she got him for Christmas two years back. He manages a grateful smile, though neither of them quite believe it. He can feel her gaze on him, studying him as they walk back to the living room in silence.

“You can’t stay here, can you?” she asks as he unbuttons his shirt. It’s phrased as a question, but it isn’t one. 

“No,” Harry says after a moment. “There’s too much-” He stops, swallows, tries again. “I guess I can go to the other-”

“Nonsense,” Gemma says, her voice matter-of-fact. “You’ll stay with me. At least until you’ve got your legs back under you.”

Harry can’t meet her eyes. “That might take a while,” he whispers.

“You’re my brother, Harry,” she says. “You’re welcome in my home for as long as you need.”

There’s a lump in his throat, and he has to swallow it down before he can speak. “Thanks,” he says softly.

Her smile is equally soft, though there is sadness in her eyes. “What are big sisters for?”

~*~*~

Louis is grateful to his boss, he really is. He’s grateful that James didn’t ask any questions when he said he needed the day off. He’s grateful that the all he said was “Hope you feel better soon.” He’s grateful to be out of the office where all the little noises were slowly driving him bananas.

But without the work to distract him, he has too much time to think.

He buys a tea, but the caffeine only makes him think faster. He walks faster, as if he could outrun his own thoughts, but they keep pace easily, running in circles and arguing against themselves.

He should just go back. He should apologise, he should say he was wrong, he should try to fix it.

But he doesn’t want to. Well, he does, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He might regret some of the things he said, but he said them, and he can’t take that back. And most of what he’d said – he meant it, even if he didn’t mean for it to destroy everything. It had been so long since they’d just had a nice, normal date, or since they’d spent a whole day with just each other. He loves Harry, and he wants him happy and successful, but he also wants him _with_ him. It’s hardly a relationship if they barely see each other, is it?

Louis’ legs are pumping now, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he scowls at the ground. It’s just not _fair_ , he thinks to himself. A relationship is supposed to be a partnership. It’s supposed to be a give and take, but lately it feels like he gives and gives and never gets anything back. He does the grocery shopping, and Harry stays late at work. He does the laundry, and Harry goes early to work. It’s like he doesn’t have time for anything except his work anymore, and Louis wants to be happy for him, for the chance to do something he loves, but he _can’t_ because it’s taking away everything he loves.

He has to stop thinking.

He comes to a standstill in front of a fountain, studying the centrepiece with a fixation he doesn’t entirely believe but trying to devote every scrap of his attention to it. It’s a beautiful sculpture, a shepherdess with her staff in hand, two lambs lying at her feet with a ewe standing over them. Water shoots from the top of her staff, spreading out like an umbrella over the sheep as thought protecting them. Louis smiles at the symbolism of it, moves closer to examine the intricacy of the carvings, mostly undamaged despite the water that surrounds them but rarely touches them. He wishes Harry were with him, wishes he could see the light in his eyes and the excitement in his voice, wishes he could know what he thought of it.

And suddenly he is inexplicably, blindingly angry. It is not _fair_ that Harry should have such a hold on him, that even when Louis is actively trying _not_ to think about him he should still sneak in and ruin everything. It is not _fair_ that Louis should still want him so badly – not need, he tries to tell himself – when he hurt him so badly.

He kicks the base of the fountain, hard, as if he somehow wants to punish it. The shepherdess looks on unmoved, the stone sheep unaffected by his rage. He kicks again, then yells his frustration as he kicks a third time with all his strength.

He regrets his impulsivity almost immediately. Pain flares to awful, burning life in his right foot, a stabbing agony that starts in his toe and shoots through his foot and up his leg. He gasps, doubling over and swearing as he clutches his foot, as though that will somehow make the pain less. It doesn’t, and he carefully lowers himself to sit on the lip of the fountain, wincing the whole way down. The initial sharpness of the pain fades, but it’s still throbbing and almost excruciating. Tears spill down his cheeks as he rubs his foot, squeezes it, rocks back and forth, desperately willing the pain to go away.

It subsides slowly, fading from all-consuming to nearly unbearable to horrific to awful. Normally he’d probably class this level of pain as more than he could stand, but compared to what it was a few minutes earlier, it’s a relief. He carefully unlaces his shoe, slipping it off with a wince and then peeling off his sock. His second toe is already bruising, patches of skin showing a dark purple tinge. He looks away and puts them back on.

He’s not ready to stand just yet so he stays sitting, and once again, he can’t stop himself thinking. He’s calmed down somewhat now, and he recognises his anger now for what it was – displacement. He’s not angry at Harry. He’s angry at himself. He’s angry that he let it all fall apart and now it’s too late to fix everything he wanted and everything he had. He had it all and he let it go, and he hates himself for it.

He's angry because it hurts, and anger is easier than pain. But the pain is still there, hovering just below the surface; not gone, just waiting.

He stands again, and walking sends shooting pains up his leg, but it’s better than thinking. The pain is the distraction that nothing else managed to be, all his energy focused on putting one aching foot in front of the other. He walks with no direction, lost in the motion, and he is startled when he sees the moon poking over the rooftops.

He sits down on a bench, watching the stars slowly come into view, spreading out in a sparkling expanse across the sky. He remembers when he and his family would drive out into the country, two tents tied to the roof, and camp in some empty field. The stars were always so much brighter and so much more numerous then, and he misses them in the glow of the city. He remembers the first time he brought Harry along on one of those trips, just shy of their first anniversary. He remembers the way his mother had smiled at him, pulling him aside to whisper, “He’s special, this one, isn’t he?”

Louis shakes his head hard, trying to dislodge the memory, but it burns in his mind – the way his sisters had all taken to Harry instantly, the way Harry’s smile had lit up the whole campsite, the way Jay had told Harry that he was a part of their family now. He remembers lying side by side with Harry, their legs pressed together and their hands wrapped around each other, staring up at the stars. Harry had been showing him constellations – Cassiopeia, Canis Major, Aquarius.

“Look!” Louis had said suddenly, pointing. “A shooting star!”

“Make a wish,” Harry had whispered, squeezing his hand.

His heart pounding, Louis had wished that they would stay together – that they would always make each other as happy as they did in that moment.

“Stupid superstitions,” he whispers to himself now, wiping at his eyes and trying to pretend that they’re watering because of the pain in his foot rather than the pain in his chest. He lies down on the bench, wrapping his arms around his chest as it to hold himself together around the hole in it, and closes his eyes.

Sleep does not come. The throbbing in his foot is relentless, and the temperature has dropped since the night before. When it begins to drizzle, Louis growls a curse and sits up, pulling out his phone to order a cab.

Twenty minutes later, he stands in front of a brick row house with red painted shutters and flowers growing in the window boxes. He mounts the front steps slowly, and stands there for nearly a minute before he musters the courage to knock on the door. Another minute passes, and he wonders if Liam is asleep. He’s about to turn around, though he’s not sure where he’ll go, when the door swings open.

“What are you doing here, Lou?” Liam’s hair is mussed and he’s only wearing a grey t-shirt and boxers, and Louis feels a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to wake you-”

“You didn’t,” Liam says. “What’s going on?” Louis chews on his lip, not sure how to answer, and Liam shakes his head. “Never mind,” he says. “Come in, sit down. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“You don’t have to-”

“Louis,” Liam says in a voice that leaves no room for argument. “You showed up at my door in the middle of the night looking like absolute shit. Do you want a cup of tea?”

 Louis sighs. “That would be great,” he says. Liam turns to go into the kitchen, but Louis calls after him. “Li?”

Liam turns. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

A small smile flashes across Liam’s face. “What are friends for?” he says.

Ten minutes later Louis is sitting on Liam’s sofa, a mug of Yorkshire tea warming his hands. Liam is seated in the armchair across from him, his expression hovering between concern and uncertainty. He doesn’t know what to ask, or if he should ask, and Louis doesn’t know where to begin. They sit in silence for a long minute before Louis finally speaks.

“We broke up.”

Liam nearly spits out his mouthful of tea. He manages to swallow it before dissolving into a coughing fit, setting down his mug on the table. Louis starts to stand, but Liam waves him off. “I’m fine,” he rasps. “Just – what? What happened?”

Louis winces as he settles back onto the sofa. “We had a fight,” he says slowly. “He came home late again. Didn’t call or text or anything.”

Liam is silent, frowning, and Louis can almost hear the question he’s not asking.

“It wasn’t different than usual,” he says. “Maybe I should be used to it, maybe I should expect it, but – do you know, I can’t remember the last time we went out for dinner? Or a movie, or anything? Two weeks ago we ordered pizza and watched The Imitation Game together, but that’s it. I just – it wears me down.” He bites his lip, shaking his head. “I _missed_ him – and I _lived_ with him. It just doesn’t make sense to miss someone you literally share a bed with.”

Liam nods. “So what happened?”

Louis looks down at his cup. “We fought,” he says. “Like, really fought. Yelling, swearing, all of it. We never did that before.”

“A lot of couples do,” Liam says gently. “Just because you two always managed to make it work-”

“Not this time,” Louis says miserably. “This time it didn’t work.”

“I’m sure you can-”

“I can’t, Liam,” Louis says, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that come anyway. “I told him he had to choose – the job or me. He had to pick which one mattered more.”

Silence fills the room. Louis could swear he can hear the house itself gasp, though it’s probably just the wind. The atmosphere is almost identical to how it was when he said it the first time -- he can still see the shock in Harry's face, the same shock that Louis had felt, though he hid it better. He can still hear the pain in Harry's voice as he told Louis he _couldn't_ , he loved them _both_ , he _couldn't_ choose. He can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat feeling like it shattered it into tinier and tinier pieces, as he whispered, "Then you have chosen."

“I know I shouldn’t have,” Louis says after a full minute. “I was wrong, but it just – it just _hurt_ , and then I’d said it and I couldn’t take it back-”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Liam says, his voice quiet but carrying. “I’m not judging you, Lou. It sounds like the situation was more intense than either of you realised – than any of us realised.”

Louis raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Guess it hardly matters now,” he says. “It’s over.”

“I don’t think-” Liam starts, then sighs. “I think you should talk to him.”

“I _can’t-_ ”

“Not right away,” Liam amends. “Give it time, maybe, but – you’ve always worked things out before. At least give it a chance before you throw away half a decade together over one shitty night.”

“It wasn’t just one shitty night,” Louis starts, but Liam shakes his head.

“I know,” he says. “And you know what I mean.”

Louis does know, but he also knows that it’s not likely to happen. He made the choices he made, and for better or for worse he has to live with them. He pushes himself to his feet with a wince. “I’ll think about it,” he lies.

Liam looks about to call him on his bullshit when his frown deepens. “You’re limping,” he says. “What happened to your leg?”

Louis looks down. “Kicked a fountain,” he says sheepishly. “I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Let me look-”

“I’ll be _fine_ , Liam.”

Liam just glares at him, hands on his hips. “Louis William Tomlinson, you are a guest in my home and you will let me look at your foot,” he says. “Or I am driving you to the hospital this instant to get it looked at by a professional.”

Louis sighs. There’s no arguing with Liam when he gets like this. He sits back on the sofa, peeling off his sock with a grimace.

The toe is entirely purple now, a dark colour that spreads a short way into the foot. It throbs with renewed vigour, not appreciating being disturbed, and Louis swallows hard against the pain.

Liam kneels down in front of the sofa, his hands cool and gentle as he handle’s Louis’ foot, but Louis still can’t help but wince. “It might be broken,” Liam says after a few seconds. “You should definitely have it seen to-”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Louis says. “You’re usually asleep by now. Please, I don’t want to inconvenience you any further than I already have.”

Liam frowns, but Louis can see the tiredness around his eyes. “All right,” he says. “But if it’s still this bad in the morning, I’m taking you to the hospital. First thing.”

It’s the best he’s going to get, so Louis agrees. As Liam goes to dig out the air mattress and pump to set up in the living room, Louis calls after him.

“Liam?”

He turns. “Yeah?”

“You’re a great friend.”

Liam looks down and says nothing, but he’s smiling as he walks away.

~*~*~

Harry is late to work.

It’s not a big deal, not really – everything is flexible here, which is why he so often comes early or stays late – but he’s never been late before.

Gemma had helped him gather up some things – “helped” is a bit misrepresentative, really, since she’d done most of the work – and then they’d driven to her flat. The drive had passed in silence, Harry drawing deeper and deeper into his own head. Gemma had asked at one point if he was okay. He shook his head, and she didn’t press the point.

The office is quiet when he walks in, a couple of people looking up to wave or call a greeting. Harry tries to wave back, or even smile, but his body feels like it’s in slow motion, every movement requiring immense concentration. He feels exhausted by the time he sits down at his desk.

Today is an ideas day, thankfully – no meetings, no workshopping, no models, just him and the designs. He pulls his drawing pad out of its drawer, lines up his pencils on the side of his desk, works his kneaded eraser to smoothness. It’s soothing, in a way, the ritual of it all, getting everything perfectly ready before beginning the work. He runs his fingers over the pencils, feeling for the one that calls to him.

None of them do.

He frowns, running his fingers over them again. It’s a silly superstition, he’s sure – almost like tarot card reading – but it’s always worked for him. Louis always teased that it didn’t matter what pencil he used; anything he drew would turn out beautifully.

Harry shakes his head, banishing the thought. He picks up his favourite pencil, a 4B, nearly two centimetres shorter than the others. He twirls it around in his hand, then brushes off his paper and holds the pencil a centimetre above it.

Nothing. There are no ideas, no images, no possibilities floating around in his head. He taps his temple with the pencil, shakes his head, and tries again.

Nothing.

He tries anyway, drawing a soft line across the page, curving it here and twisting it there, but when he lifts the pencil, it just looks like a line. He can’t see anything in it, nowhere for it to go, nothing for it to become.

He switches pencils, pulling out a 3H and drawing looping circles across the page. He draws triangles, squares, lines, ovals. Nothing feels real. Nothing feels alive. Nothing gives him ideas, makes him want to explore and experiment and design.

He sets down his pencil with a sigh and rests his head in his hands.

“You look like a man with something on his mind.”

Harry jumps at the voice, sending his pencil skittering across the desk and onto the floor. Zayn bends down to pick it up before Harry can move, handing it back to him with an apologetic smile.

“Thanks,” Harry says, setting it back with its siblings. “And yeah, sorry. I guess I’m just a bit out of it today.”

“Late night?” Zayn says with a grin.

Harry shakes his head. “Not exactly,” he says. “Didn’t sleep much, though.”

Something in his voice must register with Zayn, and he leans on the edge of Harry’s desk. “You okay?” he asks gently.

Harry shakes his head again. “Not exactly,” he says again, his voice hoarse.

Zayn stares at him for a moment, then straightens. “Come on,” he says. “We’re getting coffee.”

Harry blinks at him. “What?”

“Coffee,” Zayn repeats. “You’re running on no sleep and I’m running on no caffeine because my coffee machine quit on me this morning.”

“But-”

“Harry,” Zayn says, fixing him with those eyes that have captivated pretty much everyone in the office on at least a few occasions. Harry often wonders why Zayn is working as a designer rather than a model, when he could so clearly _own_ a catwalk, but Zayn says he prefers the art and the anonymity. “You’re no good to anyone like this,” Zayn continues, unaware of Harry’s wandering thoughts. He taps on Harry’s page of aimless doodles. “Take a break. Come on.”

“But I just got here,” Harry protests.

“And yet you’re still not here,” Zayn says. “Not really.” He reaches out, tugging on a loose curl of hair. “I don’t know where your head is at, pretty boy, but it’s somewhere far away from here.”

Harry sighs. Zayn’s not wrong, no matter how much Harry might wish it. He pushes himself to his feet, wincing at the stiffness that came of spending a night on the sofa, asleep or not.

They don’t talk while they stand in line and order. When the drinks arrive, they head for a small table tucked away in a back corner. Harry takes a long sip, trying to delay the inevitable, and is almost surprised how good the hot beverage feels. He wraps his hands around the cup, already feeling more awake.

“So what’s going on?” Zayn asks gently. “What’s got you so badly blocked you can barely draw?”

Harry looks down at his cup. “Louis and I broke up.”

Zayn blinks. “You’re kidding.”

His response might be almost funny, except Harry has never felt less like laughing in his life. “I’m not.”

“You and Louis,” Zayn says, his voice disbelieving. “This is the guy you introduced us all to at that office party a few months ago? The one who looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen? Not to be vain, but I _was_ standing right there.” Harry almost smiles, but it twists at his stomach as Zayn keeps talking. “The one you’re always talking about in the break room – Louis told you this joke or that story, or the time you and Louis did this thing together?” he says. “The one whose face I always see doodled in the corners of your designs? That Louis?”

Harry’s head is pounding and his chest is tight. “Yes,” he manages to say. “That Louis.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Brother,” he says. “No wonder you’re blocked.”

Harry sighs, and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s warm, but he can barely taste it, and suddenly he’s not hungry anymore. “It’s funny,” he says, though it’s not really funny at all. “If it hurt, if I were angry or sad – that I could work with, I think.”

Zayn frowns. “You’re not-”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“But I thought-” Zayn cuts himself off. “I mean, it seemed like you really cared about him.”

“I did. I _do_ ,” Harry corrects himself.

“Then what-”

“Anything, Zayn,” Harry says. “It’s like my brain has been dunked in novocaine or something. Everything feels like it’s happening somewhere else, somewhere outside of me. It doesn’t seem real. I’d think it was a nightmare, but I’ve never had a nightmare that made me feel like I was going to throw up before.”

Zayn lets out a low whistle. “What are you going to do?” he asks at last.

Harry shakes his head. “I have no idea,” he says.

~*~*~

As promised, Liam insists on driving Louis to the emergency room to have his foot seen to the next morning. Louis wants to argue, wants to protest that it isn’t necessary, but his entire toe is throbbing now, and it twinges at every step, so he gives in. He emerges from the exam room with a prescription for a burn salve for his thigh and the news that he’s fractured his middle phalange. Liam nearly flips his lid, which is almost fun to watch. Then he starts lecturing, and Louis sighs.

“I know I should have, Liam,” he says tiredly. “You’re usually right about all that and we both know it. But it’s taken care of now, so can we just go?”

Liam looks like he wants to keep chastising, as if it will stick this time when it never has before, but instead he sighs and nods.

Back at the office, Louis throws himself into his work. His distraction of the previous day has faded, and all he wants is to submerge himself in numbers and calculations. Logical things. Predictable things. A mathematical formula never does something unexpected. A spreadsheet never argues with you or comes home late. Accounting software never breaks your heart.

Louis tries to lose himself in the work, and for the most part it works. It doesn’t numb the pain altogether, but it allows him to forget it for a time. He comes early and stays late, even skipping lunch some days or eating at his desk. His supervisor compliments his dedication, though he thinks he sees a flicker of concern in her eyes. It doesn’t matter; he keeps working.

Nights he spends at Liam’s. The air mattress takes up permanent residence in Liam’s living room, and Louis is reminded yet again that Liam is the best friend anyone could ask for. He makes a mental note to pay him back somehow, once he’s back on his feet. Pay back rent, or something. In the meantime, the extra hours he works have another benefit – since he left everything at the flat when he left, he needs to buy new – well, everything. Liam is generous to a fault, but his clothes don’t really fit Louis’ thinner (and shorter, he has to grudgingly admit) frame.

He tries to help out as best he can, contributing in little ways – washing the dishes, doing the laundry – but it feels like small thanks for everything Liam does. Louis can’t cook for beans, however – Harry always took care of that, so he’d never needed to learn – so Liam does most of that. They fall into a rhythm of sorts, and perhaps its dysfunctional but it works for the time being.

The morning that Louis flips the page of his calendar to realise that a month has passed, he’s startled. It doesn’t seem like it’s been that long, not when so little has happened and the mere thought of Harry still hurts like a hole in his chest. But nothing has happened because he doesn’t want to do anything, and his broken toe feels nearly healed, only the desire to avoid another of Liam’s vigorous scoldings keeping him from removing the tape. He hopes that his heart is healing too, that someday the fractured pieces might knit into a solid whole, but he doesn’t hold his breath. Learning to manage the pain is all he really expects.

For now, managing the pain means working. So he works. He barely leaves his desk all day, ploughing through tasks and seeking out more. It’s nearly ten when he finally leaves, the building dark and silent around him. He likes it that way, likes feeling the still air wrap around him, likes feeling like he fades into the shadows. It feels calm, and _honest_ in a way he doesn’t quite know how to explain. He hovers in the doorway for a moment on his way out, savouring it before he closes the door behind him and heads for the brightly lit lifts.

Outside it’s still warm, though there’s a light breeze that cuts through his thin jacket. He walks faster, heading for Liam’s. It’s not far, though it’s not exactly near, but walking is cheap and goodness knows he doesn’t get much other exercise. As he walks, he thinks. Liam will most likely be asleep – he’s always been an early riser, going to bed before Louis even considers the night to have begun. That means no hot meal – there might be leftovers, or something from the freezer, but Louis doesn’t remember there being much. He meant to go shopping today, but, well. He didn’t.

It’s too late at night for a proper shopping trip, but he can at least grab something for dinner. His cooking skills are limited, but he has yet to burn pasta, though he does overcook it on occasion. Still, it’s one of his more reliable meals, for small values of “meal”. A box of macaroni, with a packet of cheese sauce mix – even he would be hard pressed to mess that up. He turns a corner and sees the bright lights of the supermarket decorating the building across the street. Looking both ways, he steps into the street.

~*~*~

Zayn is probably Harry’s hero. He’d taken Harry under his wing when he started at the company, showed him the ropes and helped him refine his work. Harry probably never would have gotten the opportunities he did without him. And now, he’s saving Harry all over again.

After their talk in the coffeeshop, Zayn manages to arrange for him to become his personal assistant. “The bosses are always telling me to hire someone,” he tells Harry when Harry asks. “I always say it’s not necessary, that I can get everything I need done on my own, but they don’t let up. This solves both our problems. It can be like a trial run, and if it goes well maybe I actually will hire someone. In the meantime, it gives you something to do.”

“I don’t get it,” Harry says slowly. “Why are you helping me?”

“Besides the fact that we’re friends?” Zayn says. “You’ve got talent, Harry, real talent and lots of it. I’ve seen it, your coworkers have seen it, the bosses have seen it. You’re just getting started, and you have so much more to do. I don’t want to see all that potential wasted because of a rough couple of weeks.”

Harry might be grateful, if he could feel much of anything at all. Instead he just nods, and does whatever Zayn asks. Making calls, placing orders, taking notes, cleaning things up – he’s slow, but his work is nearly perfect. After a few weeks, Zayn says that he’s been such a help he’s considering hiring a full-time assistant, but he’s not sure he can find anyone as good as Harry. The comment sparks a flash of pride, but it soon fades to the same dull, grey nothingness that has covered everything for the past weeks.

Zayn gives him an hour or two to himself every day, instructing him to keep his drawing skills in practice. “Don’t push yourself,” he says. “Just see what happens. Give it time. It doesn’t have to be good, just keep drawing.”

The trouble is, Harry _wants_ it to be good. He wants to return to how things were, to when he had a job he loved and a boyfriend he loved and a home he loved and they were happy. At least, he thought they were happy. He wonders when things changed, wonders why he never noticed. Now it feels like he’s lost all of it.

He draws anyway. It feels stiff and uncomfortable, but he draws – abstract shapes, faces, pictures he finds online, whatever is lying around the room. He can’t help noticing, however, that what he draws the most – never meaning to, but when his mind wanders – is Louis. It’s always the same image, in profile but with a mischievous grin and a sparkle in his eye as he looks sidelong out of the page. Now that Zayn’s pointed it out, he sees the same face on page after page of his old drawings – always the same one. Perhaps that was the problem, too. Perhaps this is the only way he can imagine Louis, happy and joking. Perhaps it never occurred to him that Louis might feel lonely.

He tries not to think about it.

Nights, he stays with Gemma, sleeping on her sofa for a few days before she declares that if he spends another night there his spine is going to telescope. “It’s like when we were kids,” he says as he crawls in beside her that evening.

She laughs. “You say that like you didn’t spend a week sleeping in my bed after you watched that mummy movie,” she says. “You were what, sixteen then?”

“Something like that,” Harry allows. “Thanks for never saying I told you so.”

“I didn’t need to, did I?” Gemma says. “And after that you actually listened when I told you a movie was too scary for you.”

Harry sighs, closing his eyes. “You always did look out for me.”

“And I always will,” she says.

Harry believes it, knows it to be true, even. But there’s only so much she can do, and though he’s grateful for her help, she can’t touch the leaden blanket that weighs down his limbs and his mind. Nothing seems to. Music, drawing, animals, children, all the things that used to be able to make him smile or laugh are barely a flicker of light. He tries to avoid them, now, reminders of a happiness that he no longer has access to.

He knows Gemma worries. He knows his mum worries. She calls weekly, checking in and trying to cheer him up. He appreciates the effort, but it feels pointless to him. He feels nothing.

“I just wish I could fix it,” she tells him one night. “I wish I could take it all away.”

“I wish you could too,” he says.

“It hurts me, seeing you this unhappy.”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that. And he’s not unhappy, not exactly. He’s not sad. He’s just not happy. He’s tried to explain that, but it never comes out quite right. “I’m sorry,” he says at last.

She sighs. “I don’t want you to be sorry for how you feel,” she says. “You have to mourn to move forward. I just… I don’t want you to get lost in the mourning.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. Lost is how he’s felt since the moment Louis walked out of his life. The world tilted on its axis, and the compasses don’t point north anymore. He is lost.

“Maybe you should see a therapist,” Anne suggests gently.

“Maybe,” Harry says. He probably should, but it somehow doesn’t seem right. It’s his mess, it’s his fault, and so he should have to deal with it. He should have to live with it.

“You always try to carry so much,” Anne tells him, as though reading his thoughts. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I’m not alone,” he says, thinking of Gemma, of Zayn, of Anne herself, far away thought she might be.

“I’m glad,” she says, and Harry can hear her smile. “Just – remember, there’s no weakness in asking for help if you need it.”

He’s not afraid of being weak. He knows he is. He just doesn’t see how anything can possibly help, anything or anyone except the one thing that he can’t have.

He wishes her goodnight and hangs up the phone, staring into the darkness for a long time. Gemma has already gone to bed – she has an early morning meeting – but he’s not tired, not yet. He stands and heads for the kitchen, peering through the cupboards for a snack. They’re out of instant noodles, the only thing he can bring himself to cook. Another of the many things full of memories and happiness gone stale. He always tries not to look at the recipe books along the wall, tries not to touch the saucepans or the canisters of baking ingredients.

Noodles, though, he can manage. He heads for the door, slipping on his shoes. It’s warm enough that he skips his jacket – after all, the store is just around the corner. He covers the distance in less than five minutes, waving to a bored looking cashier as he enters. Scanning the aisles, he finds the one where they keep the macaroni, and walks towards it.

~*~*~

Louis has just lifted the box of macaroni from the shelf when something makes him look up. He immediately drops the box, blinking. He has to be dreaming, or hallucinating, or just wrong.

But as the drooping head slowly lifts, he knows he isn’t.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out, the only word in his mind lodged deep in his throat, caught on his ribs.

“Louis,” Harry says instead. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Um.” Louis’ chest feels like someone replaced his blood with acid. “No. Me neither.”

Harry looks down, then back up. His eyes don’t seem to quite focus when he looks at Louis. “How are you doing?”

Louis almost laughs, the sound catching in his throat. He coughs instead, and rubs his face. “Not great,” he says at last. “You?”

He can’t decide if he wants Harry to say he’s okay or to say he’s anything but. He wants Harry to be okay, to be _happy_ , but it hurts to think that he might be just fine without Louis when Louis has never been less fine in his life.

“Not great,” Harry echoes, and for a moment Louis can’t tell if he’s just repeating back his own words or if he means them. But there’s something off about him, something that doesn’t feel quite right – his voice is flatter, his movements heavy. He still isn’t looking quite at Louis.

Louis reaches for his arm, then stops himself. They both stare at it for a long minute before Louis sighs and lets it drop to his side. “I miss you,” he says, his own honesty startling him. The words slipped out before he knew they were forming on his tongue.

Harry nods, but doesn’t say anything. Louis isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

God, he thought missing Harry hurt before, but now – seeing him for the first time in a month – it’s excruciating. And the thought of walking away, of not seeing him again – he presses a hand against his stomach, half for support, half to check that the gaping hole he feels there is only in his imagination.

“Can we talk?” he asks, again startled by his own words. Liam had said they should, and Louis had ignored him as usual, but maybe he was right as usual. And even a few more minutes with Harry before he had to let him go again – maybe it would hurt worse, but for the moment he craved that connection, however short it might be. “I know maybe it’s not my place, but…”

Harry shakes his head, and for a heartstopping moment Louis thinks he’s going to say no. “It’s fine,” he says instead, and the feeling rushes back into Louis’ fingers.

“Bit chilly for doing it outside,” Louis says. “Should we, like. Go back to the flat, or something?”

It sounds so strange in his mouth, feels foreign, even, to call it “the flat” instead of “home”.

“To the…” Harry looks momentarily baffled, but then his face clears. “Oh. I didn’t think – I haven’t been there in – a while.”

“Since…” Louis trails off, not wanting to say the words any more than Harry, though they both know them. How could they not, when it’s staring them both in the face. “Yeah, me neither.”

Harry looks at him with an expression that could almost be surprise. “I guess we should at least see how it’s doing.”

He turns, walking out of the store leaving Louis to follow. The box of macaroni stays forgotten on the floor, one corner dented.

“Could you slow down a bit?” Louis asks after a few blocks. “My legs aren’t as long as yours.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, slackening his pace. “I… forgot.” He frowns. “Strange.”

“What’s strange?” Louis asks, trying to catch his breath.

Harry shakes his head, accelerating again. “Nothing,” he says.

Louis reaches out and grabs his wrist, pulling him back. Harry stops and stares, startled. Louis gives him a wry grin. “Slower, remember?”

Harry looks down. “Right,” he says. “Maybe you should set the pace.”

They walk in silence for several minutes. The flat is about twenty minutes’ walk, manageable but by no means nearby. The silence weighs on Louis until he can’t stop himself from talking.

“Where have you been living?”

Harry looks up, as though he’d been dreaming and Louis had pulled him awake. “Where… with Gemma,” he says. “She came over – that night, after… after.” They walk another minute. “You?”

“Liam,” Louis says. “Spent the first night in a park, though.”

That seems to catch Harry’s attention. “You slept in a park?” He sounds almost horrified.

“Didn’t exactly sleep,” Louis says softly. “Haven’t really slept properly in a month.”

He doesn’t look up, but he feels Harry nod beside him. “Yeah,” Harry says. “Me neither.”

A knot of something inside Louis’ chest begins to loosen. It feels like hope.

“Besides,” Louis says, trying to ignore the feeling. “It was warm enough. Not comfortable, exactly, but it was fine for one night.”

Harry is silent for a long moment. “I wish,” he starts, then sighs and shakes his head.

Louis glances at him and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

The flat is just as they’d left it. Louis is half-surprised to realise he still has the key on his key ring. He almost expects it not to work, but it turns easily and the door swings open silently.

It looks so normal, is the first thing he thinks. He steps inside slowly, feeling Harry follow him and shut the door behind them.

“It looks like we never left,” Harry whispers, and Louis turns to him instinctively, smiles instinctively, then lets it drop away as he remembers that they _did_ leave, that neither have them has set foot in this place for a month, that the only reason they’re here now is – he thinks, he hopes – to see if they can pick up the broken pieces.

He walks down the hall, trailing his fingers over the walls. He glances around the living room, peers into the kitchen. It still looks lived in, random objects scattered on the tables and floors, but it feels… hollow, somehow. Like it’s missed them too.

“Probably best not to open the fridge,” Harry murmurs, and Louis shivers at his voice so close to his ear. He wants to turn around and grab Harry by the shoulders, wants to press him against the wall and kiss him until the spaces they've built between them fade to nothing, until he can remember what it feels like to be whole.

Instead, he bites down on the inside of his cheek and forces himself to respond like a normal human being. Normal, ha. Like he even knows what that means.

“I guess it’s a good thing you always keep the counters clean,” he says. “No fruit flies, no ants.”

“And you always said I was being over-cautious.”

His voice is teasing, and Louis is caught off guard for a moment. “Well, it’s not like I expected-” he starts, realizing too late what he’s saying. The moment grows sharp and fragile. Louis looks down. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” Harry says. “I know.” He walks back into the living room, settling himself on one end of the sofa. “So what now?”

Louis spends a long moment deciding where to sit – too long, really. He turns on the lamp in the corner while he thinks – does the armchair put too much distance between them, or is the other end of the sofa is too close? Eventually he decides on the armchair, pulling it closer to the sofa with a squeak that makes them both wince.

“I think,” he says at last, then winces again. “God, there’s just so many things I wish I’d said, or I wish I hadn’t said.”

Harry nods thoughtfully. “Then why-”

“I was afraid,” Louis says. “I was afraid that – I don’t know. I’d muck everything up.” He gives a wry half-smile. “That went well, didn’t it?”

Harry gives him a ghost of a smile in return, and Louis’ heart skips a beat. The traitorous nibble of hope swells again.

“So I was thinking,” Louis says, plunging ahead and trying not to think about – any of it – hope, fear, uncertainty, mistakes. “I was thinking – brutal honesty. Air everything out. Keeping it hidden clearly didn’t work, so. This is all I can think of.”

Harry scratches his ear. “Brutal honesty?” he says. “That sounds… risky. What if we make things worse?”

Louis stares at him for a moment, then laughs bitterly. “We broke up, Harry,” he says. “How could we make things worse?”

Harry nods. “I guess you’re right,” he says. “You first?”

Louis swallows hard. “Me first,” he agrees. His heart is pounding, and he grips the arms of the chair hard. “So, first off – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said you had to choose.”

Harry looks startled. “You – you’re sorry?” he says. “But I-”

“Please,” Louis says. “Just – let me finish?”

Harry looks like he wants to argue, but nods, settling back into the sofa. Louis shuts his eyes, and forces himself to continue. “I was scared and I was lonely and I felt like I was losing you. I didn’t want to lose you.” He tries for a smile, but it falls flat. “So instead I pushed you away. Successful, that.”

“Louis-”

“I knew I’d made a mistake the second I said you had to choose.” He opens his eyes, meeting Harry’s gaze. “Not just because you couldn’t but because you shouldn’t have to. That’s not what love is. Love is supporting, not taking away.”

“But I wasn’t supporting _you_ ,” Harry bursts out. “It goes both ways, Lou. I was so caught up in the job, so excited about getting to do what I’ve always dreamed of that I forgot – I forgot to support you. I forgot to make time for you, for _us_. I left it all on you. That’s not how a relationship works.” He shakes his head. “When you told me to choose, I told you I couldn’t. And so I lost both of you.”

Louis’ eyes widen. “You lost your job?” he says, aghast. “Shit, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no,” Harry says quickly. “I probably should have, but I haven’t. I’ve just been… I haven’t designed anything the whole month. I couldn’t.”

Louis winces. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Harry shakes his head. “ _I’m_ sorry,” he says. “I should have been there for you.”

“I should have been there for _you_ ,” Louis replies. “I shouldn’t have left – I was too caught up in my own pride, I didn’t want – but I should have just been proud of you instead.”

Harry wipes at his eyes, then stares at his hand as though astonished by it. “I haven’t cried the whole time you’ve been gone,” he says, sounding almost dazed. “I didn’t feel a thing. Not sadness, not happiness, not pain, not anger.”

Louis’ chest aches, and he slides off the chair, kneeling in front of the sofa and gripping both Harry’s hands in his own. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“You had to do something,” Harry says, smiling faintly through his tears. “You can’t carry a two-person relationship by yourself. You shouldn’t have had to.”

“I should have _talked_ to you."

“When?” Harry asks. “I was never here.” He shakes his head. “You did your best,” he says. “Next time we’ll do better.”

That stops Louis short. “Next time?” he asks, his voice careful.

Harry’s smile grows nervous. “Well, I – if you want to – I didn’t mean-”

“No,” Louis says quickly. “I – I want to. I just wasn’t sure if you-”

“I want to,” Harry says, just as quickly. “God, Louis, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“I might have some idea,” Louis says, smiling wryly. “I missed you too.”

Harry touches Louis’ cheek softly. “Come up here,” he says. “You’re too far away.”

Louis clambers up onto the sofa willingly, tucking himself into Harry’s side. He fits perfectly, always has, and he can feel another knot in his chest loosen as he presses himself against Harry. He feels the gentle rise and fall of Harry’s chest and suspects the feeling is mutual.

“If it’s all right with you,” he says softly. “I’d like to move back here with you. But with more communication this time.”

The movement of Harry’s chest pauses for a moment, then resumes. “Actually,” Harry says. “I have another idea.” He starts to stand, slipping out from Louis’ hands, and Louis feels panic prick at his heart. “Don’t worry,” Harry says, tossing Louis a light smile. “It’s a good one.”

He disappears into the kitchen, and Louis hears the sound of a drawer opening. A mixture of curiosity and nerves propels him to his feet, and he follows Harry into the room.

Harry stands in front of the counter, the spice drawer open and half the contents pushed to the side. He glances up when Louis enters, then smiles again. “I’d chide you for peeking,” he says, “but I suppose it doesn’t really matter at this point.” He pulls a small, rectangular box from the drawer and holds it out to Louis.

Louis takes it, studying it. It’s lightweight, about three inches long and tied with a blue ribbon. He strokes the side with his thumb, feeling its smoothness.

“Go on,” Harry says. “Open it.”

Louis glances up at him one more time, then obeys. He pulls off the ribbon, letting it fall away, and lifts the lid of the box.

There, nestled in tissue paper, is a silver key.

“I put a down payment in about six weeks ago,” Harry says. “With the extra money from my job, you know, I thought…”

Louis is still staring at the key. “Is this – are you-”

“It’s bigger than this place,” Harry says. “And there’s a balcony, and a fireplace…” He trails off, uncertain. Louis still can’t speak. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want, though,” Harry says nervously. “I wanted it to be a surprise so I didn’t ask, but if you don’t like it-”

Louis kisses him. He reaches up, wraps his hand through Harry’s curls, and tugs his mouth down to kiss him. “I love it,” he murmurs against Harry’s lips. “I love it and I love _you._ ”

“You haven’t even seen it,” Harry says, giggling. His laughter cuts off sharply when Louis digs his thumb into Harry’s back, and Harry lets out a stuttering groan that sends shivers down Louis’ spine.

“Don’t have to,” he says, panting. “If it’s got you, it’s got everything I need.”

He’s dropped the box, somewhere along the line, but, like. There are more important things. Like the thing Harry is doing with his tongue and the sound he makes when Louis tugs on his hair just _so_ and it’s been an entire month since Louis saw heard felt tasted smelled _any_ of this. That’s far too long.

Harry pulls their mouths apart, his eyes dark as they meet Louis’, but still the most beautiful shade of green he’s ever seen. “I love you,” Harry whispers, and it takes Louis’ breath away for several long seconds. “I love you so much. Don’t let me ever forget to tell you that. Don’t let me forget to _show_ you that.”

“I love you too,” Louis manages. “Don’t let my pride get in the way of it again.”

“Deal.”

Their lips meet again, hot and eager and Louis’s pants are already starting to feel a little tight. He tugs Harry backwards into the living room, meaning to make for the bedroom, but then Harry does that _thing_ with his tongue again and Louis can’t _breathe_ and he just needs to feel Harry on top of him _now._ They fall onto the sofa, fully clothed, rutting against each other like they haven’t done since they were young and freshly in love but Louis doesn’t care, doesn’t care about mess or ruined clothes or anything except the feeling of Harry’s skin against his skin, Harry’s mouth against his mouth.

It’s almost embarrassing how little time it takes before Louis feels the white-hot heat sparking just behind his navel. He gasps Harry’s name, hears Harry gasp his, and that’s all it takes. His back arches, his head pressing back against the cushions as he gasps Harry’s name over and over. A moment later, he feels Harry collapse on top of him, his body shaking with his own orgasm.

They come down slowly, arms wrapped around each other. Louis never wants to let go. He feels Harry pressing soft kisses to his hair, his forehead, his cheeks, and he slowly opens his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Harry’s smile seems to glow through the half-lit room. “Hey,” he says.

“You’re heavy.”

Harry glances down, as if he’s only just realised that he’s still on top of Louis. “Sorry,” he says, starting to climb off.

Louis wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him back. “No, stay,” he says. “I like it.”

Harry relaxes back onto the sofa, looking down at Louis with eyes that are so soft Louis wants to pet them.

Maybe he’s a little sex drunk.

Or tired.

He closes his eyes, sighing as he feels Harry’s breath on his cheek.

“We’re disgusting,” he faintly hears Harry say. “We should clean up. Or, like. There’s a bed.”

“Don’t care,” Louis says, settling into the cushions. “I have you. ‘S all I need.”

“You’re a sap.”

“Yeah.” Louis is unapologetic. “You love me.”

Harry is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, Louis can hear the smile in his voice. “I do.”

They fall asleep like that, one half on top of the other on a too-small sofa. They’re sweaty, sticky, and stinky; fully clothed, with the lamp in the corner still on.

It’s the best night’s sleep either of them has had in a month.

 


End file.
